


Prendre Son Envol

by inter_spem_et_metum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, First Kiss, John is a Horndog, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:02:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inter_spem_et_metum/pseuds/inter_spem_et_metum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place the night of John and Mary's wedding, immediately where "The Sign of Three" ends. John notices that Sherlock has left his violin at the reception hall. This story explores what happens after Sherlock leaves the reception, and the reasons for Sherlock's behavior at the beginning of "His Last Vow," as well as a possible reason for why John and Sherlock don't see each other for several weeks after the wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prendre Son Envol

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my brilliant beta, vrazdova!

Sherlock's steps pick up as he strides down the gravel pathway, away from the staccato of flashing lights and sound. Billboard dance hits from yesteryear, punctuated by laughter. A merry-go-round of pink and purple strobe lights illuminating dancing couples between beats. The occasional clink of champagne glasses upon congratulatory cheers.

Merrymaking at its finest. Exactly the kind of atmosphere where he doesn't quite, and never will, fit in.

He swings his coat around his shoulders and tugs the collar up around his neck. Better. The night air cools his face, a welcome respite from the dense, human warmth of the dance floor. His breath comes out in short puffs; his heart rate is slightly elevated, despite the regularity of his walking pace. He ignores it. _Insignificant_.

He'd tried very hard to make today right for John. He thought he'd done fairly well, in spite of—or maybe, in addition to—untangling a rogue murder plot. (Well, _attempted_ murder plot.) He'd apprehended the would-be killer and helped rescue the would-be victim. (Sholto, Major Sholto … very _interesting_ ). He'd done his best man speech, he'd given a toast (well, _attempted_ toast), he'd played the waltz he'd written, and he'd gifted his newly married best friend and his newly pregnant wife with the most life-changing news they were likely to ever receive (albeit by accident).

He'd watched them dance away in a swirl of hope and happiness and bright colours. Ready to begin a new chapter in their lives.

Well, he can't complain about it, really. He's always known ( _feared_ ), on some level, that Baker Street was just a temporary plan for John. And John's comment about the tutoring had made that abundantly clear. With Mary, John will have a life of sunny days and summers by the sea and always-open curtains. No more chasing after madmen down blind alleys; no more waltzing in the dark.

 _John is safe_ , he thinks. _Safe, yes … too safe?_ Maybe John will learn contentment. ( _Unlikely_.) Maybe the post-traumatic stress tremor in his left hand will come back. ( _Plausible_.)

Or maybe he'll remember what life is like away from a war. What it's like to sleep with both eyes closed.

At any rate, Sherlock knows he won't be needed to keep John awake now.  

As he nears the main road, a skittering sensation begins to prickle at Sherlock's nerves. It runs down his spine, light at first; up through his arms, then into the tips of his fingers. He shivers.

It's familiar. Demanding. Not unexpected.

It feels as if a swarm of tiny, carnivorous insects has somehow entered his body's latticework of axons and is chewing away at the delicate fibers that coordinate and control his impulses.

Tantalising. _Complicating_.

_Don't know how those rumours got started!_

Sherlock flinches. The sting of John's stilted laugh echoes in his memory, wrong, all wrong. His skin itches. He feels light-headed. In the darkness behind his eyes, a thin steel line emerges. It looms and pulses, moving closer, ghosting silver over his skin. The line is a tool, a method. It has the ability to cross him out, to erase his vision and temporarily silence his roiling mind.

He quickens his pace, arriving at the intersection in under a minute. The trees at either side of the street glimmer green and gold in the darkness, and shiny drops of dew are starting to form on the pale grass.

His fingers won't stop moving. He stuffs one hand in his coat pocket and uses the other to hail a cab.

He knows exactly where he needs to go.

\---

John hasn't been able to sit or stand still for the past hour. He feels as though he could jump through his (increasingly forced) smile and right out of his skin. Nineteen minutes. That's how long it had taken for him to notice that his best man wasn't dancing with anyone, wasn't sitting at any of the tables against the wall, was no longer _in the room_. And Sherlock hadn't joined the smoking crowd outside, either—John had already checked.

Sherlock had gone. He'd simply got up and left the reception. And it had taken John nineteen minutes ( _of dancing with Mary of chatting with Greg of swigging down a second glass of champagne because it was his wedding night so why not_ ) before he'd noticed.

He glances again at the music stand on the podium at the back of the room, sees the envelope with a string of words scrawled across it. Sherlock's handwriting. And, lying on the cloth-draped table beside it, his violin and bow.

The wood of the instrument gleams darkly in the low light, and a sinking sensation drifts into John's stomach as he scans the crowd for the third time, mentally ticking off the silhouettes bobbing on the dance floor and perched together in half-circles at the edges of the room— _not Sherlock, not Sherlock, not Sherlock_.

Inside, though, John already knows. _Sherlock Holmes has left the building._

He sighs and unbuttons his tuxedo jacket. It's grown warmer in the hall. His fingers are itching to close around a tumbler. Why does his best friend have to be such a dramatic, ignorant sod sometimes?

It must've been the comment about the waltzing lessons. Maybe he _had_ come off a bit … flippant. Or maybe Sherlock hadn't seen that John was simply trying to lighten the mood. He definitely hadn't laughed, at any rate.

 _Because it wasn't_ funny _,_ Sherlock's voice rumbles through John's brain, soft and humourless. John's face feels hot. He could really use another drink.

Then Mary appears, sidling up next to him in her ivory wedding gown. She asks if everything is all right, trailing a slim hand down John's arm and clutching a fresh glass of wine in the other.

 _How many is that for the night?_ John's physician sensibility kicks in, temporarily distracting him from thoughts of Sherlock. His eyes flit over the glass of Moscato before meeting Mary's inquisitive look.

"Yeah, it's fine. You sure you're all right to be drinking?"

Mary flushes, her mouth morphing into a corkscrew smile as she looks away. Her wide blue eyes are unreadable. For one brief moment, John isn't sure whether she's furious or flustered. Then she laughs. The sound is like an icicle shattering.

"Well I brought it for _you_ , of course," she says, raising her eyes and the glass simultaneously. Her countenance relaxes into the easy, graceful grin John had memorised from the moment he'd bumped into Mary at the clinic (quite literally; their first meeting had resulted in coffee stains and an effluence of apologies).

"Husband," she adds, throwing him a furtive look as she twirls the stem between her fingers.

John smiles with what he hopes is a convincing impression of warmth—though, at this point, he's beginning to feel more like he's baring his teeth. 

"Wife," he says, chuckling. "You run along, I'll be right behind. Just need to ask a favour of the DJ." He winks. She presses a kiss to his cheek—so quickly that her lips barely touch his skin—and then does just that, taking the glass of Moscato with her.

John turns back to the podium, to the empty place where Sherlock had played his violin not two hours before. He knows Sherlock never would've left his instrument unattended like this. At home, he'd always been very careful about his violin, polishing the wood with a soft cloth and gently wiping the rosin off the strings, and then habitually returning it to its case before moving onto the next distraction. So why would he leave it here, in a semi-public place, where anyone could pick it up or tamper with it?

John goes still as he realises that there are two possible explanations. Either Sherlock has left his violin behind because he'd exited the reception in a hurry and forgotten to bring it with him, or he'd deliberately left it for someone ( _John_ ) to find.

Neither of those scenarios bodes well for the remainder of John's wedding night, and neither does anything to unclench the tightening knot in his gut.

 _Bloody hell_ , he mutters.

John looks up and catches Mary's roving eye from across the room. She's talking with Janine and another bridesmaid ( _Helen? Hilda?_ John can't remember; she's one of Mary's newer friends) in the corner, sipping delicately at her glass of wine. Her hand is perched aggressively on her hip as Janine prattles away (probably about the nerdy looking guy she'd been dancing with earlier) and John can tell that the absence of a groom is clearly starting to annoy his bride. He'll have to go to the DJ now and request a slow song—something romantic—and then he'll figure out what he's going to do.

John grabs a glass of wine for himself from a serving tray and heads over to the DJ booth. He can already sense that married life is going to involve more than just compromise.

\---

One more dance later (he'd chosen Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight," which Mary seemed to like, and to which John had breathed all the words into Mary's warm neck as they shuffled together across the wooden dance floor, making her blush), John has made up his mind. It's half ten and the hall is rented until eleven; the party is coming to a close.

His eyes flit back to the abandoned violin, which looks displaced amid the scattering of de-thorned white roses and melting candles littering the table; and then to Mary, who is standing near the double doorway of the hall, stretching out her arms to Molly and Tom for a goodbye hug. The DJ is winding down with a string of classic and sentimental late-90s tunes; the guests are beginning to trickle out into the cool spring night.

Should he tell Mary where he's going? Should he tell her _why_?

John finishes the remainder of his (third) glass of wine in two swallows, and tilts his head, resolute. He can't begin his first night of marriage by lying to his wife. Mary would never lie to him—of that he's sure. She is a beacon in her ivory dress, glimmering against the dusky yellow of the darkened room.

He catches her eye and she smiles, wide and easy and lovely. John had fallen in love with that smile once, what seems like ages ago. The corners of John's mouth tug up in return. At the same instant, Mrs Hudson floats by in her enormous hat and navy overcoat and, instantly, John knows what he's going to do.

"Uhm—Mrs Hudson!" John moves toward her as she turns her head and smiles.

"Oh, John dear, I was just looking for you." She clasps his arms with knobby fingers. "I'm heading out soon, but I wanted to tell you and Mary that it's been such a  _lovely_  party. The three of you planned everything so well!"

She nods toward the small mob of remaining guests at the front of the hall. "Though, to be honest, I haven’t seen Sherlock in hours…" Her lips are pinched. She touches a hand to her cheek.

"Yeah, I—I know," John falters. "He left. Earlier." The words feel thick on his tongue. "But the thing is, I need—I could  _use_ —your help. With something."

"Help? What's the matter, dear?"

He clears his throat. "It's just. Sherlock left—ah—he left his violin."

"Oh! How silly of him," she clucks. "He loves that old thing, I can't imagine him leaving it behind. I can take it back to him, if you’d like?"

John licks his lips. "Actually … I think I should bring it myself." He thinks about inventing a supplementary excuse, and doesn't.

"So, that's. What I mean is," he continues, "I was wondering, if you wouldn't mind, if I escorted you back to Baker Street?"

He can tell Mary a half-truth without really lying to her, he decides.

Mrs Hudson's hazel eyes are gentle from beneath the engorged brim of her hat. "Oh John … if you can. I think it would be good." She speaks slowly, carefully. "And really, I might've had an extra glass or two of champagne. So, you know. I could probably use the help, too."

John squeezes her hand. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he whispers.

"Oh shush. Nothing I wouldn't do for you boys! You know that." She waves John away, trying and failing not to grin.

He nods. He _does_ know. "If you don't mind waiting just a few minutes? I'll be—"

"Yes, yes, I'll wait, dear. Now go talk to Mary!"

John does just that. As expected, Mary is not happy when he explains how Mrs Hudson becomes tremendously unsteady when she drinks, and that the volume of wine she's consumed on top of the champagne is straddling the line between "a bit much" and "broken hip."

"Can't Greg take her home?" Mary asks, her eyes darting above her fixed smile as she waves goodbye to one of the nurses from the clinic. "He's a policeman, after all, isn't that what they do? Or Molly? I'm sure she's very familiar with Baker Street."

John wonders what, exactly, Mary means by that last statement, but decides not to ask.

"It'd be better if Mrs Hudson had someone she trusts to take her back to Baker Street and get her into her flat," he says. "If Sherlock hadn't needed to leave earlier, he could. But that's not an option right now."

Mary scrunches her nose and crosses her arms, crunching the beaded fabric of her dress against her chest. "Yes, and he's not really been the most reliable best man today, has he?"

John bites back a reply before it forms. Definitely a _lot_ more than compromise.

"Oh all right," she sighs. "Just don't forget, this is my wedding night—"

" _Our_ wedding night," John interrupts, placing his hands on either side of Mary's waist and gently tugging her to him. He can't do what he needs to do with the double burdens of a guilty conscience _and_ a distraught wife.

Mary is rigid in his arms. "That's what I meant," she snaps. Her face is tired. John can tell she's feeling apprehensive, and he wishes she weren't—really, he does—but he's not going to backtrack now.

She tucks a stray golden curl behind her ear. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be picking on you. You're only trying to help a friend."

John rubs small circles into her arms, a silent gesture of thanks. The night air coming through the open doors has cooled her skin, raising goose pimples along her shoulders. Mary's eyebrow twitches imperceptibly as she relaxes into his touch.

"All right. But I'll be waiting when you get back—barefoot and pregnant, as the saying goes!" She giggles, forcing John's lips into a small grin. "And probably without very many clothes on, either. So hurry, husband!"

John kisses her, twice, and promises that he will. Then he stands by Mary's side and says goodbye to the rest of the guests as they trickle out, offering enthusiastic and inebriated congratulations, and Mary seems happy again.

She chats with her ex-boyfriend, David, while John gives the reception coordinator his mobile number so they can further discuss the transportation of the décor and other miscellaneous items the next day (which makes John remember that he still needs to pack for their honeymoon trip to the Mediterranean, which starts on Monday).

David pumps John's hand before he goes. He fixes his ice-blue eyes on John's and says he's happy Mary's found someone she won't have to wait for—which John thinks is a little strange, but decides to ignore in favor of expediting the party's end. Because who knows what Sherlock has gotten up to by this point? John isn't entirely sure he wants to find out. It's been nearly four hours, and on a good day it usually takes Sherlock less than half an hour to get tangled up in something nefarious and/or destructive. On a bad day … well, it takes considerably less time.

He puts his arm around Mary's waist and dances her over to congratulate the DJ on the night's musical selections, and watches from the corner of his eye as Mrs Hudson sneaks over to the podium while Mary's back is turned. The landlady finds Sherlock's violin case under the table and tucks the instrument inside, and then hides the whole thing in an enormous canvas bag she's procured seemingly out of nowhere.

Mary still seems happy as John escorts her outside and ushers her into the waiting limousine. John gives the driver the address of their flat in Richmond as Mrs Hudson wavers in the background, pretending to be tipsy. John bends down (carefully, as he's not feeling completely sober himself) and tucks Mary's gingerly-folded wedding veil, bridal bouquet, and his wilting boutonniere into her hands. He lifts his head to kiss her.

"See you in a bit," he whispers, breathing out against her cheek.

" _Just_ a bit, husband," she purrs, voice like velvet as she turns her face away before John's lips can find hers, and pulls shut the car door.

\---

Sherlock weaves down the streets of Central London, coat hanging haphazardly from his slumped shoulders. Half his collar stands at urgent attention, and the other half is only halfway there. Sometime in the last ten minutes it has begun to drizzle, and Sherlock's pale face and hands are beaded with fine mist, and his curls are plastered wetly across his forehead like erratic calligraphy.

He's already taken off his tie (which had been asphyxiating him the entire day) after clambering into the cab and giving the driver an approximate address near Canary Wharf. He's still wearing his tailcoat from the wedding, though he suspects it will be in need of a dry cleaning. He doesn't care. He doesn't look at his reflection when he's like this.

The night has grown brisk and clammy with the onset of the rain. He's intensely aware of the humid breeze creeping inside the folds of his faithful Belstaff, seeking out his remaining warm spaces and chilling them. He clutches a small, hard packet in his hand, which is stuffed inside his pocket. It is an anchor, a millstone. An eraser.

He hasn't waited until reaching the quiet of the flat. Some of the businessmen will give an onsite discount to the customers they like, if they stick around to sample. They seem to appreciate his company, anyway. Sherlock is one of the few buyers who shows up without an agenda. He brings neither skittishness nor arrogance to the chemical table, as some of the younger, inexperienced ones do. And, like most of the dealers he knows, Sherlock doesn't care whether or not they consider him a friend.

 _Businessmen?_ John's voice rattles incredulously through Sherlock's head. _You_ do _know most of them are addicts too, Sherlock. Junkies turning out more junkies._

" _Too_ is a little unfair," Sherlock says aloud, to no one, as he narrowly misses crashing into a lamppost. "It's been _ages_ , John."

A woman wrapped up in a maroon slicker and carrying her shopping hurries past, leaving a wide berth between herself and Sherlock.

 _Besides,_ he thinks to himself, _this time it's for a case._ At least, he hopes it will be. He's barely formed the plan yet—actually, he can't remember the details of said plan at the moment—but he knows it has something to do with newspapers. It's important that the people who control the newspapers also think Sherlock is a _too_.

"See, it's not just you, John," he croaks, tightening his fist around the packet in his coat pocket. "Everyone thinks I'm a fraud!"

The sound of his own voice rings out into the damp night, echoing off the lonely, endless walls of closed shops and silent flats.

But that's not quite right … he isn't a fraud anymore. He doesn't want to be. He doesn't want to fall. Falling is like flying. But he sometimes feels that's exactly what life is becoming—a long series of falls. Over and over and _over_ again. Nowhere to go but down. The distance between roof and concrete is growing smaller. He can see every line, every crack in the pavement. Soon, there won't be enough space for a cushion.

Sherlock's hip cracks against something hard—something metal—a railing. The contact leaves his hipbone smarting beneath the layers of coat and clothing. He grabs onto the iron rod, steadying himself, and quickly becomes cognisant of his surroundings. He's surprised when he hears neither the gentle lapping of the Thames, nor the pattering of rain upon the beech trees in Jubilee Park.

Instead, the familiar sounds of the city proper leak into his ears: car horns, busses rattling along busy streets, foot traffic, the faint thump of dance music from a stereo. Sherlock looks up, eyes snapping fully open, and his own front door stares down at him, wide and blank, save for the slanted knocker and gold-tinted decals declaring the entrance to "221B."

How did he get back to Central London? Wasn't he just in the Docklands? It's a ghost town there after working hours. Must've taken the tube; he doesn't remember getting another cab. But he's home now, so the rest doesn't matter. _Home, sweet home_ , his internal voice chimes. _Home is where the Heart is_.

But he doesn't have one—not anymore. He's been reliably informed.

Sherlock wrenches open the door and pulls himself up the seventeen steps and into the dark flat and drops his damp coat on John's empty chair. He thinks for a second, biting his lip. He tugs out the small package from his right coat pocket and tosses it onto the coffee table. Glass clinks against wood through the wrinkled wrapping.

Sherlock scrubs his face, the stubble of his long-past-five-o'clock shadow scraping the pads of his fingers. He feels as though he's been awake for days. How long ago had he eaten, slept? John's wedding is a far-off memory from another life. The hit he'd taken in the park wasn't meant to last all night. He can feel the drug receding already, filtering out of his system and leaving his nerves dry and buzzing. He needs to find the edge and file it down before it cuts him. _Soon_.

The tuxedo jacket comes off and sails next to Sherlock's coat, where it crumples in defeat. The rose-and-lilac boutonniere is tossed—not quite gracefully—into the fireplace, loosening a flurry of small white petals across the hearth. Then the yellow satin vest, which lands on the back of the couch.

Sherlock's dress shirt, considerably less crisp than it was earlier in the day, finds a home on the floor, and shoes and dress socks are quickly dispatched. Lastly, the tailored wool trousers, which he'd chosen expressly for their classic lines and soft grey hue, are kicked into a puddle at the foot of Sherlock's armchair.

Naked except for his pants (dark grey, to match the trousers; silk, because he can), Sherlock strides to the window closest to the fireplace and grabs a fistful of curtain in each hand. He yanks the fabric aside, spilling light from the streetlamps and from the flats opposite into the sitting room. He does the same to the other window, and 221B is illuminated by the rain-smeared glow of the city. No need for artificial lighting. John can keep his _closed curtains_.

And furthermore, Sherlock doesn't _care_ how many CCTV cameras Mycroft is pointing at his windows right now. His little present from Canary Wharf sits in plain view on the coffee table, an open invitation for rumours, indictment, or both. If their old friends in MI6 and the rest of the British government are really _that_ curious about Sherlock's recreational activities, then let them see. He's never much cared for other people's opinions of him—good, bad, or otherwise. And _he_ doesn't need to live behind shut draperies and locked rooms and unreliable friendships. What a tedious existence _that_ would be!

Sherlock presses a palm to the windowpane. On the other side, the cool spring rain streaks down, indifferent to everyone and everything. The chill from the glass leeches into his skin and he shivers, arms and chest prickling with unexpected goosebumps.

He draws his hand away, leaving a faint, misty handprint that immediately begins to fade.

\---

In the cab, John's hands gingerly encircle the canvas bag containing Sherlock's violin, careful to keep it steady. He feels like he's holding a grenade. Out the rain-splattered window, he watches neighbourhoods and trees and parked cars flash by in streaks of muted colour; as they approach the city center, the scenery changes to fleets of black cabs, poorly-lit late-night busses, neon-traced shopfronts, and bright residential towers. _It's different in Richmond_ , he thinks. Central London is always pulsing with colour and light and sound, even in the small hours of the morning; but where he and Mary live, southwest of the city, it's decidedly quieter. The pace of life is more serene; mature, even. Mary likes it. John likes it, too—mostly because Mary does.

Beside him in the cab, Mrs Hudson is prattling away as usual. John nods and hums in the correct spots, and throws out the occasional exclamatory remark. He and Sherlock had both perfected the art of half-listening to Mrs Hudson's chatter by the time they'd—well, by around the time Sherlock had decided to fake a swan dive off the roots of St. Bart's, and John had found himself utterly and miserably deserted, yet again.

He'd stayed on at the flat for another eleven days. Then he'd had a panic attack while climbing the stairs after returning late one night from the pub, where he'd been a frequent visitor in the days following Sherlock's funeral, and that was the end of that.

John had moved out what little he owned the next morning, and he hadn't been back until after Sherlock's return nearly eight months ago.   

It's a bit unfair, John thinks, that Sherlock is his only comrade-in-arms who's been allowed to come back from the dead. John had known some good men in Afghanistan, and he'd watched some of those same good men bleed out into the heat-razed sand from gaping shell wounds in their chests and abdomens that even he, as a skilled army surgeon, knew were far beyond mending.

Major James Sholto knew, too, because he'd been there, right alongside him. John's former commander is one of the few others in his life who understands the things John had seen during the war. James also knows what it's like to fail to save someone. John had experienced that as a battlefield doctor and as Sherlock's friend; James had lived it as a commanding officer in charge of the lives of several young men. He's _still_ living it. James is forced to wear the scars of his failure on his face, while John is able to hide his wounds deep within his memories and nightmares, where no one else can touch them.

It's both interesting and sad, John thinks, how differently the world looks upon those who must reveal their wounds, from those who appear outwardly unscathed.

Notwithstanding the day's earlier, bizarre events with Jonathan Small and the stable-belt-turned-knife-turned-attempted-murder-weapon, it had been good to see James Sholto again. James had been John's anchor, once—during one of the most disastrous, difficult, and singularly chaotic periods of his life, and John will always be indebted to the Major for his guidance and friendship.

John only wishes that James hadn't been forced to return home a pariah after the insurgent attack in Helmand—that, like John, he could've found some comfort, some small respite, from the horror of the battlefield, in another's company. It was the least that James deserved.

It's been a long time since John has thought about Afghanistan and all the comrades he'd lost (and found) there, and he's feeling a bit somber by the time the cab pulls up to the kerb at Baker Street. He knows he probably could've done without the third glass of wine. Too late now.

John pays the cabbie and helps Mrs Hudson out of the car, and does his best to shield her from the rain as they sprint towards the door. It's impossible to tell if Sherlock has been home; a quick glance confirms that the lights are off in the flat, though—oddly—it looks as if someone has pushed the curtains away from the windows.

Mrs Hudson hugs John on the landing. Her hair smells faintly of roses (John's probably does too, for that matter; they were everywhere in the reception hall) and is slightly matted where her wide-brimmed hat was sat on her head.

"It really was a lovely party, John," she says into his shoulder. "All the best to you and Mary. You'll drop by and visit, won't you?"

"Of course," John says, patting her back before letting her go.

The landlady flashes a drowsy smile as she pulls away. "Now, go find out what our odd duck's gotten up to."

John smiles stiffly. "Yes, well. Hopefully nothing too serious."

Mrs Hudson fixes him with a knowing look. "You know how impossible that is to measure with Sherlock, dear." Her voice is gentle, but there's a hint of worry in her face that prompts John to turn toward the stair, foregoing further propriety.

"'Night, Mrs Hudson!" he calls over his shoulder.

"Goodnight!" Her voice floats after him as John clambers up the stairwell, cradling the canvas bag with the violin in the crook of his arm.

He still has a key to the flat, but it's tucked in the back of a kitchen drawer at his and Mary's place in Richmond. He raises his arm to knock when he reaches the door, but then notices, with not a little alarm, that it's slightly open. No light shows from underneath the crack. A surge of adrenaline spreads through John's body, settings his nerves on fire. If Sherlock is home, the lights would be on; if he'd gone out, the door would be locked.

John shoulders the bag and, steeling himself for the possibility of foul play (or worse), nudges open the door with the polished toe of his shoe.

The sitting room glows faintly with the city lights shining through the rain-streaked windows, but otherwise the flat is dark. Silent.

"Sherlock?" John calls quietly, peeking his head in.

From the center of the room there comes a slight movement. John squints into the gloom, his eyes tracing the outline of a familiar shape.

"John."

The single syllable rumbles up John's spine, and a pale face turns toward the doorway, fixing him in an expressionless stare. Sherlock is sitting in his armchair in the dark—apparently doing nothing.

John steps fully inside and slips the canvas bag off his shoulder. "You're—you're sitting here with no lights on?"

"Splendid observation." Sherlock turns his face away, as though seeing John appear at the door of 221B on his wedding night, when he's supposed to be at home with his new wife, is the least interesting thing in the world.

John sighs, and goes to switch on the corner lamp, bathing half the room in a low yellow glow. Sherlock is sitting in his thinking pose, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on the wall opposite. Which isn't unusual, but for the fact that Sherlock appears to be clothed in only a dressing gown and a pair of gray silk pants.

John shivers and turns his head. The flash he'd seen of ivory skin, of bare chest and thighs, is a stark contrast to the dark fabric of Sherlock's robe.

Then, unable _not_ to, John looks back and notices, for the first time since he'd lived at Baker Street, just how thin his friend is underneath his custom-tailored suits and expensive dress shirts.

Sherlock's eyes flit to John's face. "You're staring," he says, not moving his head.

John opens his mouth. Blinks. Clears his throat. "I've. Ah. I've brought your violin back. Saw you'd left it behind at the reception. So."

He holds out the canvas bag in offering. Sherlock doesn't move. _Just take it_ , John wills to the man sitting fixedly in the leather armchair—the man who is no longer his flatmate or colleague, but who is still his infuriating best friend, the same one who'd left his wedding early and is now lounging half-naked in a chair in a pair of tight silk underwear in front of John as though this is all completely _normal_ —but Sherlock simply waves a hand and drones, "Thanks. You can leave it."

John's breath hitches. "Sherlock. I've just come from—"

"Yes, I know," the detective interrupts. "You came from ' _all the way across the city'_ to bring back my violin. I said thanks."

John blinks. _That_ had stung. He sets down the canvas tote and glares at Sherlock.

"So I suppose you think it's also fine for the best man to leave the wedding early without saying goodbye? Because as far as I'm aware, that's not the normal custom."

Sherlock shrugs. Then, in afterthought, adds, "I didn't leave the _wedding_. I left the reception. Quite a difference, with respect to timeline and importance of events."

John shakes his head. "Okay then. Mind telling me _why_?"

Sherlock shrugs again, blue-green eyes bright in his carefully composed face.

"Sherlock, look at me."

Nothing. John feels the sudden urge to shake him. If Sherlock were any closer, he would.

"Sherlock," he says, in a low voice.

After a moment, Sherlock turns his head a fraction of an inch. His eyes roll up to meet John's, and John can see that they're bloodshot, and his pupils are dilated more than normal. His face, too, is incredibly pale.

John's eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling. "Sherlock, _where_ did you go after you left?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John charges over him. "And _don't_ bullshit me, because you know I can tell when you're lying!"

Sherlock flexes his fingers, considering. He decides to be forthright. "I merely engaged in some light recreational chemical use. And _you've_ been drinking all night—champagne and wine, judging by the slope of your eyelids and the splash of _vin blanc_ on your shirt front—so _do_ please save your lecture on sobriety for a more relevant occasion, John."

Sherlock turns his head and resumes staring at the wall, chin tilted in defiance.

John sighs. This is _not_ how his wedding night is supposed to go. John is supposed to have gone home with Mary, to their shared flat, and nimbly removed her wedding-night lingerie, piece by piece, while she giggled and goaded him on, and then later fallen asleep by her side, fingers entwined in hers. Not arguing with a strung-out, half-naked Sherlock in the middle of the night in 221B.

"Great," John says. "Brilliant. Since when have you started using again?"

Sherlock makes an exasperated noise. "Since when does it _matter_?!"

" _Because_ , Sherlock!" John's voice rises, and he watches, with some satisfaction, as Sherlock flinches at the sound. John might be able to get through to him, yet.

"Because," John repeats, softer, "I already lost you once, Sherlock. And I'll be damned if it's going to happen again because of something so—so _senseless_ , and selfish."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You make it sound as though I don't know my own limits," he sneers. "I _do_. What concern is it of yours what I put into my body? You're no longer my physician, _Doctor Watson_ , and I've got along just fine without your input—medical or otherwise—during the past few years. As have you, without mine, quite obviously."

The words sink into the wide space between them like a dense, roiling fog, and John panics as he feels the edge of something slipping beyond his grasp. Tonight—the last two-and-a-half years— _this_ —feels wrong, all wrong.

He takes a step towards Sherlock's chair.

"Sherlock."

A pause. John moves closer. Another step. He's nearly standing over Sherlock, who can no longer pretend to ignore him now that John is directly in his space.

" _Sherlock_."

A slight pause.

A sigh.

"Yes."

"That night, at The Landmark," John says carefully. "When I was." He stops. "When I was about to propose. To Mary, and you—" He falters again. Clears his throat. John can feel his composure slipping, suddenly. He doesn't trust himself to be this close when he's this angry. Nor does he trust himself enough to move away.

"Just—do you have any _idea_ what that was like?" John sweeps out his hand, gesturing jerkily at the flat, at what used to be their life together. "Thinking you were dead, and then. Out of the blue. You just. _Showed up!_ Like nothing was wrong—like the last two years hadn't happened?"

Sherlock sniffs. "You forgave me for that."

John ignores him. "And then you come crashing back into my life, into _mine and Mary's life_ , and you help us plan the most amazing wedding we could've asked for, and then you said—what you said. At the dinner. And then you leave, on your own, to go off and do _this_?"

He's quite upset now; Sherlock can tell. John's shoulders are stiff; his body is rigid. If Sherlock were to glance at John's face, his mouth would be a thin, white line.

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. He can feel John's steel-grey eyes boring into his skull. "Yeah, well. You know what I'm like." A pause. "You always have."

John leans down and jabs his finger into Sherlock's chest, startling the other man into looking up. "Sherlock, this is not the way to fix a problem— _any_ problem!" John is tired, and his Dutch courage is starting to wear off. He feel utterly helpless. And he knows Sherlock can tell.

Sherlock laughs. The sound is cold, biting. "Oh yes, perhaps I should get  _married_ instead, I'm sure that would solve most of my problems and be _far_ less punishing in the long run."

John is quiet. He lowers his arm, fingers curling into a fist at his hip.  

"That's not fair, Sherlock." His voice is low. Steady. _Dangerous_. "Deciding to get married wasn't a _solution_ to anything. For me. Okay?"

Now it's Sherlock's turn to be angry. "Oh, of _course_ it wasn't," he snaps, voice rising as he gestures wildly, parting the folds of his dressing gown and exposing his front—with the exception of his silk pants.

"You're just so  _well-suited_ for a blissful life in the suburbs that you had to skip right down the same path as every other love-struck imbecile on the face of the planet and dig yourself a nice little domestic grave to rot in! Do you honestly have so little imagination?"

The words are coming out faster than Sherlock can edit them, which isn't his usual standard—not when sober, anyway. But sober he isn't. And, for that matter, neither is John.

 _John_. Who is staring at him, open-mouthed and round-eyed, as if he's been slapped. Sherlock had seen that look only once before, when they'd scuffled in the street before setting off to bluff their way into Irene Adler's house.

"I can understand why you might want that, though," Sherlock continues, his voice dropping to a more reasonable octave. (High or not, he knows it's a bit not good to be yelling at John on his wedding night.)

He glares up at John from the protection of his chair. "Most unimaginative persons are easily and _stupidly_ lulled into satisfaction by the illusions of certainty and security, as though the possibility of their spouses running off with another lover, or their houses catching fire and burning to the ground, or their children being snatched off the streets by an invisible predator, are not, in all reality, distinct _probabilities_. No, these things can never happen to them, because they've _chosen_ these lives—these safe, happy, comfortable lives—where nothing bad ever happens, and the wolves stay hidden in the forest, and no one ever loses their way. Except that's not _real life_ , John—that's a _fairy tale_."

John shakes his head and laughs once, weakly. "Sherlock, I know the world's a dangerous place. I'm the last person you need to be telling that to."

Sherlock tips his chin sharply. "Then why do you insist on pretending it _isn't_?"

John inhales and purses his lips. Leans in. "So. Let me get this straight. You think that if you'd never jumped—if you hadn't disappeared—we'd still be running around together, nearly three years later, solving crimes and helping the Yard hunt down thieves and murderers? That nothing would've changed, that neither of us would've ended up doing anything different with our lives?"

Sherlock cringes against the leather, but holds John's gaze. The steel line in the back of his mind wavers, tempts. " _Yes_."

John folds his arms across his chest. He looks away. His face is reddening. Sherlock searches John's expression, combing for clues. He realises that he's holding his breath.

"Sherlock." John's voice breaks on the second syllable, and he stops himself.

"Don't say you wouldn't want to." Against his will, Sherlock can feel his lower lip start to tremble. _Dammit! Where is his self-control when he needs it?_ "Because we _both_ know that's a lie."

John's fist sails into the arm of Sherlock's chair, inches from Sherlock's elbow, hitting the leather with a sharp smack. Sherlock jumps as his hands fly instinctively to the armrests. John's face is thunderous.                                    

"You _left_ me, Sherlock!"

Sherlock swallows and slowly stands, no longer startled. He draws himself to his full height, forcing John backwards by an inch—but only an inch. Their noses are nearly touching (or would be, if John was as tall as Sherlock). The detective's face is defiant and his eyes are blazing.

"And. I. Came. _Back_." The words skate down John's spine—threatening, dangerous.

Through the fading wisps of his chemically induced haze, Sherlock thinks he finally understands that cliché about tension and knives. Whether because of the drug still in his system, or because of the incredibly close proximity that he and John are currently sharing, he feels as if his body wants to sway forward. To collapse the space between them and transform it into something less confounding and more precise.

However, he also knows that, out of the nine probable scenarios such an action is bound to invite, exactly _none_ of them are likely to end well. And now John is looking at him with the same expression he'd had that night at The Landmark—not good.

 _This_ is why Sherlock doesn't entangle himself in sentimental matters.

"You did, yeah," John says. His voice is a dull blade. "But not soon enough."

Sherlock's brow creases, and John watches all the impassiveness drain from his face in a single instant. He swallows, eyes darting, as his mouth fails to form words. In a single, gut-wrenching instant, John realises that he's seen the same expression on Sherlock's face exactly once before—and it was earlier today.

"I—" Sherlock manages, just before John reaches up and pulls Sherlock by the shoulders, yanking him down.

And then, in one confusing, inexplicable, irreversible instant, their mouths are crashing together, lips and teeth colliding, and John is groping an arm roughly around Sherlock's back, fingers splayed against flesh through silk; and he can feel Sherlock twisting in his grasp, left foot moving back a step, causing the dressing gown to slide down over his shoulder; and then John's hands are on _skin_ —cool, pale, shivering skin—and Sherlock gasps in between their two mouths, and a surge of heat sinks low into John's body as Sherlock sways _forward_ then, leaning into John, pressing _closerclosercloser_ , mouth hard and body hard and hands hard against John's mouth John's back John's side; and Sherlock's fingers find the nape of John's neck and his tongue darts wetly across John's tongue, tasting him.

John sucks hard at Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock's fingers stiffen in John's hair, suddenly _aware_ , and a small, unhappy noise strangles in Sherlock's throat and he steps back, pressing the backs of his knuckles to his mouth as though John has wounded him—eyes wide, pupils blown to black, cheeks two circles of pink in his pale face.

\---

Across the city, Mary toes off her slippers and swings her feet up onto the bed. She's already stripped off her wedding gown and slipped into her pyjamas, and has fixed herself a mug of chamomile tea. She's patient. And she's determined to be comfortable while she's biding her time. Because if you can't find some enjoyment in anticipation, she thinks, then what's the point of waiting?

True, it isn't quite how she imagined her wedding night would go. But she's _more_ than adept at managing unexpected changes of plan.

Atop the romance novel resting on her nightstand, Mary's mobile phone chirps once—a text alert. _John_ , she thinks, brightening.

She grabs the mobile and thumbs on the screen, and her blood immediately chills as the message bubble pops up. The sender field is blank. Which means it can only be one person.

 _THIS IS GOING TO CAUSE TROUBLE FOR YOU,_ the text reads.

Mary's eyebrows shoot up. _What in the—?_

A second later, an image bursts onto the screen. It's a fuzzy photograph, taken with a mobile camera—seemingly from across a street and through a window, judging by the distortion. Mary instantly recognises the dim outlines of the room, but it takes her a second longer to distinguish the figures. She's never seen Sherlock half-naked before, which explains why it's taken her a moment to register his form.

Sherlock is standing, his features obscured by the back of a dusky blond head and a strong, slim-lined body. John's head. John's body. John, who is exactly four inches shorter than Sherlock in shoes; John, who had promised only hours earlier to love, cherish, and keep her until death did they part (among other such nonsense); John, whose arms are gripping Sherlock's body in the photograph on her mobile like a drowning man clutching onto a life raft.

 _I SEE JOHN IS TAKING HIS VOWS VERY SERIOUSLY._ Mary's mobile chirps again as Jim's second text blasts onto the screen.

She glares at the small instrument in her hand, feeling the heat gathering behind her eyes and pooling at the base of her skull. She thinks of the Walther PPK hidden inside the shoebox under her side of the bed, and her fingers itch to curve around its cool steel body.

 _Think_ , she tells herself. She knows Jim isn't the kind to get his hands dirty, so the photo likely wasn't taken with his mobile. Then who? _David_ , her voice supplies. It must be. Jim would've sent him after John and Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on their whereabouts and find out what John was getting up to. Sherlock's early retreat from the reception had raised a red flag, and Jim had sniffed it out with David's help, as usual—something Mary had (obviously) failed to do.

 _Some spy_ you _are, darling,_ she admonishes herself. Ex _-spy_ , her Mary Morstan voice chimes. _No, Mary_ Watson, the voice corrects again. She's a married woman now, after all, and already baking her first loaf of bread. She'll embrace it, no matter what John gets up to with Sherlock behind closed doors. As long as Jim stays interested in knowing, of course.

 _What should I be expecting when John comes home?_ Mary grits her teeth and thumbs out the question, neutral but polite, wishing to hell that her fingers were pressing into Jim's big round eye sockets instead of the mobile keyboard.

Her phone is silent for a minute, during which Mary blows the steam off her cooling tea and takes a tiny, careful sip. It still scalds.

Nibbling her burnt lip, she turns back to the phone when it goes off again.

_I'LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW, WHEN YOU NEED TO KNOW IT._

And then, a half-second later:

_ENJOY YOUR WEDDING NIGHT! :)_

Mary flings the mobile across the room with a cry of frustration. It bounces off the wall and lands in a heap of puffy cushions at the foot of her and John's bed.

\---

In the sitting room of 221B, Sherlock swipes a trembling hand across his reddened mouth and gazes back at John in half-surprise, half-stupor. His lip twitches downward as he takes another half-step back.

John hears Sherlock's bare heel thump against the base of the armchair. He has no idea—absolutely none at all—what happens now. He's breathing heavily; they both are. But Sherlock has a look on his face not unlike the one he'd had that night at the Landmark, just before John had charged at him and Mary had tried to pull John back.

John exhales. Closes his eyes.

 _Shit_.

"It seems … closed curtains … aren't quite as important as you'd thought," Sherlock says quietly, rubbing his bottom lip with one long, arched finger.

John throws a glance at the exposed windowpanes. He clears his throat. "That was … that was not planned."

Sherlock's face is unreadable. "Oh."

It's neither a question nor a confirmation. John isn't sure what the hell it is.

Furthermore, he's no idea what possessed him to do what he's just done—he can't blame the wine, because he's not feeling even _remotely_ drunk now—and he can't blame Sherlock, either, because Sherlock had left him to go off on his own and John had left Mary to follow him (as usual), against his better judgement—and now here they were.

 _Don't try to fool yourself_ , the voice in his head chides. _You've wanted to do that for_ ages.

John licks his lips. Looks up. "I'm—" But he can't say _sorry_ , because he's not, really; and because John knows that, if their places were reversed, it would probably be the _worst_ possible thing to hear at the moment.

Sherlock waits, studying him. He drops his hand. His lips are still flushed. The pale skin of his thin chest glows dully in the darkened room, rising and falling beneath his mussed dressing gown. It's the royal blue one—Sherlock's favourite.

John stops to consider for a moment just _how_ and _why_ he knows this. Has he always paid such close attention to everything Sherlock likes and does and says?

 _Don't be ridiculous_. _You've been drinking him in since the day you laid eyes on him._

John tilts his head, embarrassed. He's standing in the middle of 221B on his wedding night—standing entirely too close to Sherlock for comfort—having an internal dialogue with himself about his supposed— _no, confirmed_ —infatuation with his best friend and former flatmate.

"You're—?" Sherlock twitches an eyebrow as John looks up. He's waiting for John to finish his sentence.

"Uhm." John coughs. "I'm. I should—"

"—probably go." The words tumble out of John and Sherlock's mouths at the same instant. The syllables are subdued on Sherlock's lips; insistent on John's.

Sherlock won't meet his eyes. He walks to the unshuttered window nearest the couch, dodging the random piles of papers and books perpetually strewn across the floor, and looks out into the street. Soft moonlight colours his face blue and ivory.

"I know. It's fine."

John fidgets, pulling at the buttons on his shirtsleeves beneath his tailcoat. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. He never does, it seems. Sherlock is silent.

John's eyes roam the room, searching for an answer, and they land on the small brown sack laying on the coffee table. He knows exactly what's inside, because he's discovered similar packages when ransacking Sherlock's room (on Mycroft's orders) during particularly difficult stretches between cases.

"I'm taking the drugs with me," John announces.

Sherlock nods his head. "If you must. I'll just buy more." His words are tight, measured.

John sucks in a breath. He hates it when Sherlock insists on being a child. But he also understands how to deal with a childish Sherlock much better than a psychologically disheveled Sherlock, and so John decides to stick to what he knows.

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving to go on my honeymoon with Mary, knowing that you're going to be holed up in here shooting junk into your arm!"

John's face goes warm. Rationally, he knows that this isn't actually his problem, and certainly not one he should be concerning himself with _tonight_ , of all nights. Why did Sherlock have the uncanny ability to keep him riveted—fixated—long past the point where it was unsafe to be so? The man himself was practically a drug.

"Sex holiday."

John's eyebrows dart up. "What?"

"Sex holiday—don't you think that's a more accurate name for it." Sherlock turns halfway, hands still woven together behind him, and shoots a quizzical look at John. "What else would you call a vacation that's expressly arranged for the participants to alternately frolic about on a sandy beach and gorge themselves on physical activities more closely aligned with the biological impetus of two drunk rabbits?"

John's mouth twitches. He might've laughed at that, under different circumstances. Instead, he clears his throat. "Uhm, I'm sure there are plenty of interesting things to do in Greece besides—well."

"Hm." Sherlock turns back to the window. His dressing gown slides further down his arm, revealing the fine curve of his slender back and shoulders. An ugly crisscross of scar tissue is visible near his left shoulderblade, and John thinks, with a pang, how he's never actually bothered to ask Sherlock about what had happened to him in the years he'd been hunting down Moriarty's network.

"You might've been more discriminating in your choice of island," Sherlock continues. "Corfu is where Medea and Jason were wed, as the legend goes." A pause. "Hopefully you and Mary will have better luck, though."

John shakes his head, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Am I supposed to be surprised that you've dug up a cautionary tale on my honeymoon destination?"

Sherlock shrugs. "You can, if you like." His voice is hollow.

Though Sherlock is the one who's half-undressed, John feels naked in his wedding tuxedo. He doesn't know how to end this. Doesn't quite understand how it started.

Well, that's not completely true—he knows how this—the wider _this_ —began, nearly four years ago. With a single, shared glance, and a question that had pierced straight through John's loneliness and isolation, and directly to his core—to the man he'd been, and thought he was, and believed he might become—uprooting and unsettling him, and returning to him the steadiness he'd forgotten amidst the bombardment of post-war civilian life: _Afghanistan or Iraq?_

In the end, Sherlock does it for him.

The detective turns, padding towards his bedroom. He doesn't stop to pick up the packet on the coffee table. John stares, unmoving, as if he's watching a dream unfold before his eyes that he can neither rewind nor alter.

Sherlock stops just inside the door and pokes his head around the frame. "Thanks for bringing my violin back." He opens his mouth to continue but instead pauses, thinking.

"Give my congratulations to Mary."

Then the bedroom door shuts with a soft click, and Sherlock is gone.

 


End file.
